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[[Backlog: Darrow 2]]
Aug. 23rd, 2016 11:07 pm"Look, I understand that this must be hard for you--" pinching the bridge of her nose, Tara paced on the street corner, the orange of the light attracting moths that circled it like a tiny sun. After being interrupted the third time, she broke in, her voice sharp. "No. Like I said, I get it. It's hard, but it's your job. Suck it up. He'll be fine until morning, unless somebody drops the ball. And since you're on call? That somebody's you. I'm going home."
She's stopped on the sidewalk, halfway between the hospital and her apartment, her lips pressed in a thin line. "Now, are you listening to me? You call me back if his temp rises over a hundred and two, or if he's bleeding, and besides that? Handle it. It's your job."
Ending the call, she wished not for the first time that she still had the satisfying click of snapping the phone closed; hitting a button on a touch screen didn't have the same impact, and didn't diffuse just how much she wanted to throw her phone as far away from her as she could.
She, as much as the overnight attending liked to ignore it, had a life. It was a decent one -- more than two years here had squared it so that she had new friends, a new job, and a new life. It was normal, now - as normal as it could be, being here.
Her heels clicked on the sidewalk as she turned to head home, moments before she heard it.
There isn't a lot of thought that goes into Tara pulling the gun from her purse, methodically checking it to make sure that it's loaded before she slips it into the pocket of her jacket. Motorcycles aren't something you hear a lot in Darrow -- especially not in the city at night, but it's a gut reaction that she can't ignore. Even if it's nothing, it still won't have hurt.
But it's not nothing. She's standing there on the corner, turning back to look at the sound when she sees him and she knows that he sees her. Her immediate response? To stop and grab a cigarette from the smashed pack buried in her purse, and to light it. It was only a matter of time, right? Right.
She's stopped on the sidewalk, halfway between the hospital and her apartment, her lips pressed in a thin line. "Now, are you listening to me? You call me back if his temp rises over a hundred and two, or if he's bleeding, and besides that? Handle it. It's your job."
Ending the call, she wished not for the first time that she still had the satisfying click of snapping the phone closed; hitting a button on a touch screen didn't have the same impact, and didn't diffuse just how much she wanted to throw her phone as far away from her as she could.
She, as much as the overnight attending liked to ignore it, had a life. It was a decent one -- more than two years here had squared it so that she had new friends, a new job, and a new life. It was normal, now - as normal as it could be, being here.
Her heels clicked on the sidewalk as she turned to head home, moments before she heard it.
There isn't a lot of thought that goes into Tara pulling the gun from her purse, methodically checking it to make sure that it's loaded before she slips it into the pocket of her jacket. Motorcycles aren't something you hear a lot in Darrow -- especially not in the city at night, but it's a gut reaction that she can't ignore. Even if it's nothing, it still won't have hurt.
But it's not nothing. She's standing there on the corner, turning back to look at the sound when she sees him and she knows that he sees her. Her immediate response? To stop and grab a cigarette from the smashed pack buried in her purse, and to light it. It was only a matter of time, right? Right.
